


Sanctuary

by wanderingsmith



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingsmith/pseuds/wanderingsmith
Summary: "I do like the new furniture, Q.  Aside from the bit of bullet protection of good old hardwood, this is far more of a statement of authority than your old flimsy egalitarian placards of economy."5+1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I play with 'em.
> 
> beta by [Fontainebleau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/works)

Bond stalked through the doors into Q-branch, glaring behind himself, and after taking a sharp scope of the room, made his way to Q's station without a word to drop down in between the unfamiliar desks that still smelled of fresh-cut wood and lacquer, inches from the Quartermaster's leg, jaw locked and glowering up at Q who had turned to watch him with amused curiosity. He reluctantly grumbled, "Psych are hunting me." 

Q grimaced, "My sympathies. Hate that place."

Bond blinked at the calm boffin, allowing himself to be momentarily distracted, "And just how often do *you* have to go there, Quartermaster?"

Q's face smoothed into a blank-eyed look, voice going quiet, "Aside from the delightful anniversary of my hire, every time one of you lot gets tortured or killed on the comm." Bond stilled at that thought, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as Q sent a reminiscing glare toward the doors, "I don't even have time to make sure you're properly out and safe before one of them appears at the door with that blasted fake smile they all have and ‘Oh Quartermaster, let's have a ‘chat' '." Q sneered as he turned back to his computer, the first flurry of keystrokes a little too vicious before he caught himself.

Bond silently touched a hand to the back of Q's calf, meeting the surprised look the man threw down with a regretful shrug, "My apologies, Q." He didn't like the brief image of his quartermaster rushing to get him, or one of his fellow agents, evac'ed, haunted by the same worry for their lives that Bond felt whenever someone he was working with got themselves injured, but keeping it buried under a mile of solid British stoicism, and then being dragged away to be asked 'how he *felt*'.

Q snorted a quick laugh, his pissed-off look morphing to pleased amusement, "I don't expect you get yourselves tortured deliberately to land me and my techs in their clutches." Then he paused and one brow went up, "Though if you happened to think of us before you go and risk your life needlessly, it would be appreciated."

Relaxing, James grinned, amused at the cheek, "I'll see what I can do, Q. But I'm afraid I can't make any promises."

Q shrugged as he turned back to his work, "Didn't really think I'd be that lucky."

Leaning back at ease against the heavy wood at his back, James stared at the dark whorls in the sliding panel of the desk opposite him, "I do like the new furniture, Q. Aside from the bit of bullet protection of good old hardwood, this is far more of a statement of authority than your old flimsy egalitarian placards of economy."

He leaned his head to look up with a smirk at the dry look he could feel burning into the top of his head.

"I was told it matched the style of my cardigans. Luckily I took that as a compliment." As James huffed a laugh of commentary at the godawful clothing, the younger man shrugged, "I still think solid oak writing desks are ridiculously ostentatious in the middle of an open workspace like this," he sent a dry look at the old tunnel's bricking, "Even if it does somewhat fit the ‘paneling'." He looked down at James with a slightly grim smirk, "And yes, I've pointed out to everyone that this would be a good place to avoid low caliber shots, should such an emergency situation arise." One of his computers bing'ed and Q looked away, attention visibly going back to his work, voice fading with distraction, "That said.. Oh what's this now… I've already warned everyone who makes complimentary noises that they are paid for by Q-branch funds and I will therefore not put up with complaints when they get damaged by normal.. daily.. use…"

James let his eyes close as Q's mutters went distant and aimed strictly at the machine.

A scant few minutes later, Bond's eyes snapped back open when he heard the doors whisk apart. He looked up at Q and watched him turn to glare at the source of the noise.

"Has anyone seen Agent Bond?"

He recognized the voice of a harried Psych intern and sat unmoving, watching Q stare coldly at the intruder, "He was by earlier." He watched the Quartermaster maintain a glare that Bond was rather surprised he'd never earned for himself until the unwelcome guest mumbled a thank you he could barely hear in his little sanctuary and left with the smooth sound of hydraulics.

Bond caught Q's eye as he turned back to his computer, "Thank you."

Q shrugged, "I'll prevaricate as long as I can. Lie when I have to. The others will take their lead from me. I don't promise they'll be able to keep up the lie forever, though."

Bond nodded. He could have made a run for it: escaping Vauxhall while avoiding a group of head-doctors that weren't even trying to stick him with needles (yet) was hardly a challenge compared to what he did for a living. Instead he found himself letting his head fall back against Q's desk, unconscionably content to sit on the unpleasant gridwork floor with Q's calm breathing and smooth typing besides him. Though the solid desks shielded him front and back and Q's body on one side, he was still exposed in his strange little hiding place, and had stood in this room often enough to know that usually, Q's people would be walking by regularly. The fact that he didn't see anyone said a great deal about the seemingly constantly-distracted techs' perfect awareness of the real world. 

What it said about *him* that he apparently didn't care about being known to hide behind the boy-quartermaster would sting more if Q weren't taking it in his stride without comment, spoken or silent. As the minutes passed, Bond felt his face slowly relax in a way no counseling session had ever managed, letting his mind lull itself to sleep tracking Q's small movements on the desk: the shift of a foot, (was the lad's back stiff from standing on this metal floor?), the slide of the mouse, the occasionally slightly harder typing (was the damned infernal machine being stubborn even for Q?), the thunk of that ubiquitous mug of Earl Grey (sounded empty, hopefully someone else heard that and did something about it..).

"Bond."

James opened his eyes to see Q crouching inches away. The internal clock that had served him well through any number of sense-deprived incarcerations told him he'd been out for at least a couple hours.

"I have to go to the workshop."

James nodded, rising and plotting how to, this time, get out of this building altogether. Two hours of solid sleep had him feeling far more human and entirely up for the challenge of exfiltrating their headquarters. He smirked in anticipation, muscles already setting into calm mission mode, "Thanks for the secure nap, Q. Much appreciated."

The little amused grin that curled the man's lips was always a pleasure to catch, and likely meant he knew just what James was planning. James wondered if he was going to take the time to lookup the camera footage to watch him escape, later. 

"I'm your Quartermaster, 007. It's my job to see to what you need."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next several chapters already written, just needing a bit more smoothing.


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks later, when 007 showed up to deliver his equipment remnants after a mission that had had far too many civilian casualties, no matter how hard the man had tried to be everywhere at once, visibly twitching when a tech walked past him on his way to Q's desk and wearing a mask that Q could see already starting to crack, he caught the man's eyes and tipped his head toward the space next to him without a thought. 

For a moment he saw the crazed killer, snarling, unable to allow anyone near, fighting with a desperately exhausted and wounded man. Q stood still and stared back into ice-blue eyes as calmly as he could while catching up to what had been a reflex offer. Bond had been doing this for 20 years on his own; he obviously had a myriad of survival mechanisms in place for these bad days. It was a wild guess on Q's part that his peaceful little rest the other day, hiding in the heart of Q's command center, meant he felt some safety here; let along that that safety would help him today.

But he was only a little surprised when the dirty, bloody, exhausted, bespoke-rag-wearing agent darted next to him as though avoiding a hail of bullets, and dropped down. Q didn't say a word and breathed steadily. He set to methodically going over the damaged gun the man had left him and brought up the forms on the tablet he kept on the ‘public' side of his workdesk to deal with the lost transmitter and digital lockpicks, all the while conscious of 007 twitching where he sat, trying to get comfortable while flinching at too many nearby noises. Inventory done, he turned back to his terminal and went back to work analysing the data in the harddrive 008 had brought in last night.

It was odd how aware, yet unbothered he was by the man, the very deadly, currently unstable man, a bare six inches from his leg. It wasn't quite ‘distracting', only another source of input into his mind, though one that pulled more attention than it really should. He was as aware when 007 stopped startling as he was of the ping of a search on screen two, tracking his slowing breathing at the same time as he kept an ear on Kelly's work guiding 002 through an easy hack.

Perhaps it was less distracting than a small window with face-recognition running on London's CCTV.

His people were obviously just as aware, because when Ted brought him a fresh cup of tea a couple hours later, he detoured to avoid the side where a dangerous agent was sleeping.

Q murmured "Thank you, Ted," then hesitated a moment before adding, "Would you mind bring me an orange juice?" He was grateful the man didn't comment on the change in habit. He knew first-hand that above-average IQ didn't mean the ability to put human two and two together; and he didn't care to explain any of this to anyone else.

When the man brought him the requested plastic bottle, Q carefully crouched down and spoke calmly, refraining from touching the man at his side, "007. Drink this please." He watched Bond's eyes open, surprisingly slowly, bleary from half-awake exhaustion, but with a desperate sharpness still present behind, and waited to see if the drink would be turned away with suspicion or- Q's face relaxed as the man reached a stiff hand to take the bottle and brought it to his lips, physical pain rather than suspicion slowing the movement, which made Q wish he'd asked Ted to bring some Nurofen as well. 

Bond didn't quite let the grimace show on his face with every swallow, but Q could see discomfort. He didn't think asking if it was the taste, the acid, or the cold would get him an answer, though. The agent took several goes to finish it, but he did, and silently handed the empty container to Q who nodded his thanks at the rare obedience and stood back up, hoping he would go back to sleep. The drink had helped a little, he was sure. That usually so soft lower lip was dry enough to crack and his eyes looked downright painfully stretched. And he didn't want to think when the last time was that he'd had a decent meal. But he didn't dare push too much at the man's over-sensitive boundaries. Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nurofen: British brand with ibuprofen


	3. Chapter 3

A few uneventful, except for Q's poor, doomed tech, missions later, there was a day where Bond, in an un-torn suit, hair clean and neat and without visible injuries or not, practically *stumbled* as he walked to Q. There hadn't been so much cruelty, this time, but there hadn't been any sleep, either. A week unable to rest under the direct observation, 24/7, of a group known for their hair-trigger suspicion and harsh treatment of traitors, followed by 36 hours of being chased and dirty, sharp fight after fight. Q suspected the short trip home in the evac helicopter had been perfect for nothing but diffusing all the adrenaline that had kept the man going all this time and leaving him still field-tense but without any strength.

To Q's relief, he went straight for what Q now couldn't help but think of as ‘his' spot. Q crouched at his side to try to make sure there wasn't something he could do to help, beyond offering a haven that he would keep safe, "007?"

Bond's eyes were already closed, shadows like day-old bruises oozing down to make miraculously undamaged cheekbones seem too sharp, but he managed to mutter back hoarsely, "Sorry, lost everything."

Q sighed, unable to be annoyed at the man in this state, and unsurprised, anyway. He thought of asking if he needed anything, but instead turned to the shelf besides him and then muttered back, "Budge over." When red-streaked blue eyes reluctantly opened to stare at him, he raised the pillow he'd snagged off his office couch and stashed there after day two of the agent's unpleasant escapade, feeling a helpless fool, "Not enough padding on your no doubt sore muscles to be sitting on gridwork for hours." He tensed after hearing his own words, wondering if the verbal acknowledgement would spark pride and make the man run.

The grateful smirk was faint, but Q knew every wrinkle of that face too well to miss it. When a hand reached out to him tiredly, he caught it, trying to hide his relieved breath, and pulled the man up to a crouch before handing him the pillow.

\---

A few nights later, stocking up on basics at the only supermarket he'd found still open when he'd finally made it out of the office, Q happened to notice the protein drink section and stopped when he saw a coffee-flavoured chocolate one. Coffee, chocolate, protein, and milk to settle the stomach; everything a growing boy needed, yes? He added two to his shopping and stashed them in his office fridge's freezer section, silencing the little voice that tried to make any more of it than caring for his agents as a good Quartermaster should.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sigh. the problem with using AO3's draft feature, is I keep forgetting to update the publication date when i go to post!! damn thing remembers the day I created the draft instead, grrrrr

James wasn't sure why he allowed himself to keep doing this. It was one thing to trust *Q*, but his whole branch knew the agent was essentially *hiding* here on a regular basis. Like an abused child in his safe cupboard.  
..sometimes he thought of being trapped in that damn tunnel and seriously wondered why he kept coming back to this spot. And then he reminded himself not to do Psych's work for them.

But he still hadn't fought the need when he walked in after Marakov's goons had spent endless days nicking him open before he managed to grind a hand loose and fight his way out. Thankfully he'd lost the earwig while getting captured, so there was no chance of anyone in Q-branch having gotten pulled for his troubles.

The not-too-near murmur of gentle voices around; the white noise of Q's several computers' fans at his back; Q's presence, and therefore his protection, right besides him. He'd thought about buying some high powered PC to mount next to his bed to help him sleep at the flat, but he knew damn well that he needed the safety just as much to be able to actually rest the way he did here. Even if the pillow under his arse wasn't anything like his mattress with its perfect firmness that he tossed and turned on through the hours of darkness.

He was aware that Q talked to people regularly while he dozed and that it didn't wake him. But he must have felt the flash of tension besides him because he snapped awake barely a half-hour later to the sound of Q quietly swearing and the speakerphone being clicked on.

"Q?" Ah. M's hound. No wonder he could feel Q vibrating with tension besides him.

"What?" He'd have to teach the boffin to hide his feelings better, that protective growl gave too much away when so little had been asked.

"Q, we haven't bothered him. I haven't even gone down there. We just need to know…" Bond's jaw twitched, every cut in his skin burning for a second, pushing himself into the desk at his back half-unconsciously, head tilted toward Q, watching a helpless brand of anger ripple over his features.

"If he wasn't alright, do you think so little of me that you think I would stand by and do nothing?"

"..No." Bond sneered at the hesitation in the answer, knowing Medical and Psych were no doubt slavering to get their hands on him.

Q glanced down at him, meeting his eyes, voice hard, "Then leave him be."

James reached a scab-covered hand up to squeeze the man's knee, smiling gratefully, then closed his eyes again.

His internal clock told him he'd been sleeping three or four hours when he felt a hesitant touch on his shoulder that he knew was Q, the sensation swimming up through layers and layers of exhaustion and he was too tired to resist leaning his head toward the welcome contact. He hadn't managed to open his eyes yet when Q carefully shifted the hand to his cheek and he could actually drop the weight of his head onto a palm whose roughness still surprised him, months after they'd first shaken on the beginnings of silent, mutual respect.

"Bond? I want you to drink this."

James made himself slit his eyes open and reach for the drink, keeping his cheek on Q's un-moving hand as long as he could before straightening with a wince that he didn't bother to hide to bring the bottle to his lips, expecting the pulpy bitterness of orange. With the first swallow, though, he opened his eyes properly and looked at the label before raising his brows, feeling a surprising rise of energy even from one slug, "Thought you didn't like coffee."

Q's lips twitched, a pleased light in his eyes, "I don't. I quite hate the stuff, I'm afraid."

Just for him, then. It shouldn't touch him this much. Should at least be no more than something to keep in mind to use- except just this damn once he didn't want to run those calculations. Q was loyalty. To *him*. And he'd found he needed that too much, these days, to do anything about it.

It wasn't as though he wouldn't do anything in his power for the man. He'd earned James's loyalty as well.

He sighed with pleasure as he settled back to rest more, feeling the wave of the drink's energy inside him, but still tired and world-wary enough to want to stay here. "Thank you."

Q winked at him, joy smoothing some of the tired stress from his face, for once, before taking the empty bottle and James closed his eyes with a little smirk for having made the man happy. Smirked a little harder to hear the bottle clang into some distant garbage with a solid aim that appealed to other, just as powerful, parts of his soul.

When Q stood a step closer to him as he shifted his keyboard to do some mouse-intensive work, the warmth of the man's leg nearby drew James, drowsing his way back toward asleep, and he tipped over enough to rest his cheek against Q's ugly but expensively-soft wool trousers.

  


Minutes after the fact, it occurred to Q that the sudden weight of Bond's head on his leg should have made him jerk. Instead, he was hardly aware of it as he examined his new watch-control board design for anywhere to fit a blood sampler. 3D design software was handy, but it didn't actually *fix* the space constraints that it displayed so beautifully.

Twitching the image every which way to look for any opportunity, he wasn't even aware of his unused left hand dropping toward the weight leaning against him. Might be some part of him had aimed to reassure the wounded man, or might be his fingers had simply been bored and wandered to more of the softness that had tickled his fingertips when he'd woken Bond earlier. Either way, when he heard footsteps approaching, he became aware of their position and spun very carefully to keep his leg against his agent as the man jerked awake.

Q nodded at the rough-edged agent stalking toward him with a too-cruel smirk, "005." Red-haired and a year younger than Q, the man was slightly shorter, yet wide enough to seem to loom as he approached Q's desk.

"Q, acquired some new status symbols have we?"

Q bristled to see those cold dark eyes leer toward the space between the desks where Q's hand had so recently slipped out of soft strands and he took one sharp step to stand between that gaze and any view of Bond's prone form, literally hissing. 

Hands forcibly still on the already-scared surface of the desk, he kept his voice low, though he let every ounce of fury he felt harden it, "Q branch's furnishings are none of your concern, agent. Your weapon."

The man only tried to stare him down for a few seconds before swearing under his breath and practically throwing a Beretta between them, followed by three pieces of metal and plastic that used to be an earwig, and sneering, "It needs calibrating: couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. And that cheap comm breaks at the first touch." Q deliberately leaned toward him when he tried again to look at the narrow space between the desks before stalking away.

It was all Q could do to clench his teeth on some nasty insults until he felt Bond's hand touch his calf and looked down.

Oh how he knew he was a fool for that soft look, hidden and rare as it was. Unlike the shallow flirting Bond threw at everyone, that tiny moment of silent affection was worth the world to him. As for having his protection accepted by the professionally paranoid, terminally independent 007...


	5. Chapter 5

"Sorry, Quartermaster." It was odd, after the last betrayal and death-soaked week in the Brazilian rainforest, that he really was sorry. For this.

Q grimaced at the half-melted scraps he'd just been handed, which had once been very useful, and gratefully-used, high-tech tools, before looking up with a quietly searching look from tired eyes, "You all right, then?"

Bond shrugged stiffly, smirk feeling completely false, "Nothing a bottle of Scotch won't help." If only it would help more.

Q watched him silently, not commenting on self-destructive habits the way everyone else did, up to and including his similarly-inclined cohorts. Not pointing out that there was an alternative, if he could only deflate his ego enough to fit.

Q must have decided that Bond wasn't staying, and turned back to his work with a small nod. Bond stared at the tempting mess of curls at the back of his head; pictured his sterile flat and hours spent twitching at shadows and ghostly whispers, exhaustion not enough to let him rest for several days to come, regardless of alcohol self-medication. 

He looked around the room, seeing nothing but geeky heads bent over mysterious work, frowns in place or chatting with fellow boffins. One fellow, much older than the average, met his eye as he walked towards the labs, nodding distractedly as though his thoughts were a thousand miles away and Bond was no more than a human-shaped shadow he was expected to respond to. Just as likely, in *this* group, those thoughts were in a different universe.

No one watched him as he silently slipped into Q's station and crouched to grab his pillow before sitting down wordlessly.

Already the ghosts were quieter. And Q never twitched; though his shoulders might have relaxed a bit.

The hum of the computers rose and fell as Q demanded more or less of them. A blanket of peace slowly settled as Bond's mind remembered that he was safe here. If anyone dared attack Q-branch, not only were Q and his people likely to have some nasty surprises in store, but Q would wake Bond long before he was in danger. Q would protect him from *any* danger, here. 

And he would know the instant *Q* was in danger. That took away a lot of the ghosts' powers.

"Bond!"

Bond jerked awake at the hands on his jaw, eyes flying to Q, crouching at his side with an urgent but un-worried look on him.

"I'm sorry, but M's on his way with some government tour."

It took several heartbeats for that to make sense and then James took a deep breath to force himself to thought, "Right. I should go." Had he really been sitting for four hours?

Q grimaced, hands still on him, still crouching warm and safely close, "If it was anyone else I'd deal with them, but-"

James reached out and touched a finger to the younger man's cheekbone, smiling, "It's alright, Q."

He pushed himself up, their hands falling away from each other.

  


It didn’t happen every time. Bond wasn’t hurt every time and he often didn’t show up when he *was* injured. 

It didn’t happen every time. But it was.. ‘nice’, when it did. It seemed to help Bond relax, and Q’s unconscious tracking said he recovered himself quicker; showed up sooner to ghost the edges of Q-branch, smirking and springy-stepped. And it soothed Q. Took away the ragged edge that built up and made it hard to sleep, when for some reason he actually went home before he was on the edge of collapse; that made his chest feel wrapped with brittle cable as he caught himself watching the doors again and again. That made an imagined broken and bleeding and too fucking *still* body flash across his vision when he was trying to focus on the necessary paperwork that claimed it was a false memory.

Nothing beat the proof of life of calm breaths through nostrils that had been reconstructed more often than the average Q-branch deskchair was replaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we've reached the end of the 'already-written'. I have ideas for the last part. I just need words.


End file.
